Bulletproof
by windspans
Summary: Dark Tower crossover. When you wake up in an unknown world remembering having died, what do you do? You find a way to go back, and make friends on the way. The last gunslinger is not the last anymore. PreDH DISCONTINUED
1. I: Death

**A/N: **_ My pet project of the moment, the crazy DT/HP x-over. Now, even if you do not know anything about the Dark Tower series, relax. You don't have to. I'll try to make this as understanble and clear as possible. For those who had read the first version of this chapter, MAJOR CHANGES have occured. And when I say major, I mean it, so please read it again, it'll help. And now for the obligatory disclaimer: I do not own anything. At all. Well, maybe the plot. This is all for fun. _

**Bulletproof**

**Chapter I. Death**

When he first opens his eyes, it is, judging by the sun's position, early afternoon. He cannot remember how he came to lay here, over this soft grass (_not that he remembers much right now_) but he doesn't really mind. It's been a while (_years_) since he has been this peaceful, and he intends to enjoy this while it lasts. He closes his eyes, sighing contently, and listens to the silence before finally falling asleep.

….:::---:::.…

He is brutally woken by the sound of a gunshot, and in an instant he is up on his feet, wand in hand. This time it is twilight, and he whispers a quick '_Lumos!_'. The magical light allows him to really look at his surroundings, and he can see he is in a clearing, a clear space surrounded by bushes and trees. The gunshot had originated from his left, he thinks, so he sets off that way, uncaring of danger, more curious than anything else. A few feet into the forest, and there is a light, a bit further. He goes.

As he gets closer, he mutes the light from his wand, and only the firelight –for it's fire, he can see it now- remains, a vivid spot of orange-red in-between the trees. Without thinking, without any conscious decision, he begins to shift into his Animagus form. It is something he has practiced back home (and now he pauses slightly, Where _is_ home?) with his friends, but has never been very useful. Now, though, he lets himself flow into his animal self, a heavy, tall, long-maned black horse. It may not be very stealthy, but would still look less threatening than a human to whoever was there, were he (they?) hostile.

He's on the border of another clearing now, he sees, hidden in the shadows, on the edges of the flickering light cast by the wood. There are three men hunkered around it, one of them skinning a rabbit, the other two arranging bags and sheets into makeshift beds. He doesn't move, stays in the dark, watching them. They don't seem much older than him, maybe four or five years of difference, maybe even less. He takes a breath. Expires.

Moves forward, into the light.

….:::---:::.…

It is Cuthbert who first hears the nervous neighs of their horses, he who first raises his head to see something moving out of the darkness, and his hand instinctively drops to the gun hanging at his belt. A mere moment later, Roland and Alain do the same, and the three of them stand tense, ready to fire. One, two seconds, and they can finally see, and it's just a horse, and after exchanging an incredulous look (but there's a brief pause before, in case there's something coming _after_ the horse) relax. Cuthbert goes back to the rabbit, finishing the skinning. Alain sits back and watches Roland, who, after a last wary look around, approaches the animal standing there, looking calmly at them. Still, Roland's approach is slow, his eyes all the way trained on the equine. He stops a few feet from it, and carefully extends his hand towards it. Unfazed, the horse just makes a few steps forward, seeming completely unafraid. Taking that as an encouragement, Roland takes a last step and begins to run his hand over the silky neck, still ready to pull back. No sign of fear from it. He ends up at its side, hand playing in the long mane.

Cuthbert, having decided he has done enough for the moment, interrupts.

"What's a horse like that doing in the middle of nowhere? It doesn't seem to have a master, but it's obviously not a mutie, and anyway, there weren't any traces of a herd around here…"

Roland nods.

"Don't know. It doesn't fear us." A pause, then – "But if it belonged to someone, it wouldn't have come all the way into the woods. Would've been found before."

They fall silent, and the subject of the conversation stays unmoving, content with looking at them. And then Alain rises, approaches, and frowns.

"Something's wrong…" He trails off, while the two others look at him. And, with a sign in the horse's direction –

"It's not a real horse."

….:::---:::.…

The man closest to him steps back, his faded blue eyes suddenly wary. He doesn't really stop to wonder how the third one suddenly knows; once again, he does not think, acts on instinct, and shifts back to human, to find, for the second time that night, three guns trained on him. He raises his empty hands, gives an easy smile. _I'm no danger to you_. They stare at him, until the one who had last spoken lowers his weapon. His companions look slightly puzzled, but follow suit when he nods slowly.

"No bad intentions against us", he tells them, and they seem to trust him.

The blue-eyed man is looking at him still, and he doesn't move while the other appears to be gauging, evaluating him. Then he turns and goes to sit by the fire, and gestures for him and the other two to come.

They come. Now he can see them more clearly, sees the curious looks the dark-haired, dark-eyed one sends in his direction. Blue-eyes' hair is dark too, but the third one is fairer, clear eyes switching back and forth between his friends and him. Silence again, for a while. Then Blue-eyes speak.

"Who are you?"

His mind is still fuzzy, and he doesn't know why exactly, and he had to think for a moment before the answer comes –

"Harry Potter."

There's no sign of recognition from the trio at his name. Vaguely, he feels there should be.

"What are you doing around here?"

"I don't know."

"How did you come here, then?"

He frowns. He doesn't remember. Tries to. It feels like something's blocking his memories, a mental wall of some sort, and he claws at it, thinning it, until it's gone. And then – _crashes. Shouts, jets of light flying, rebounding on the walls, red hair at the corner of his eyes, men in black robes, blood in his eyes, his scar hurting, then a high-pitched laugh, and two voices, one cold and high, the other deeper and not as cold, both familiar, the same spell, and two green flashes of light speeding towards him, too fast for him to block, and 'Harry!' called over and over and_ – black.

He blinks. Swallows. Blinks again.

Then, still composed, still calm, but on the inside watching the green approach, closer and closer still, all in slow motion, while –

"I died."

….:::---:::.…

Alain, by nature, was never one to be startled easily. Still, the stranger's – Harry's – answer is so unexpected that he cannot mask a movement of surprise. Cuthbert, on the sides, does the same. Even Roland recoils slightly. A shared look. His friends, as unbelievable as it is, seem to accept that answer as the truth. He feels the same. He doesn't need the touch to believe so; there's some part of him that recognizes the younger man as someone to be trusted, someone who won't lie to them, not on such a subject.

They look at him again, and nod as one. _We believe you. _

Then Cuthbert, always curious, voices what Alain's thinking (_he doesn't know what Roland's thinking, rarely ever did_).

"That was magic, wasn't it? The horse."

It seems obvious, but they want to be sure. Alain detects flicker of surprise in the green eyes and is puzzled. What is there to be surprised about? It is only logic.

Hesitation, then a nod. "Yeah…"

They don't pry further. They've always been on comfortable terms with magic, even though their experiences with it have not always been good.

Silence.

Alain uses it to look at Harry in detail. Green eyes, the first thing you notice when looking at him, too old in his adolescent's face. Wild hair, falling on his forehead. And, just there, hidden by it, a jagged scar, rather small, but in the distinctive shape of a lightning bolt. He wonders how he came to get it. Asks the question.

Receives an astonished look.

….:::---:::.…

They know magic, yet do not seem to be wizards. They ask him who he is, then wonder about his scar. Something is wrong.

He looks at them.

"Where are we?"

They don't seem fazed by sudden change of subject. Blue-eyes (_and he still doesn't know their names_) is the one to answer.

"In the Outer Baronies, maybe a thousand wheels from where Gilead stood once." There is bitterness in the way he says that name, Gilead, but not directed at him.

And… Something is very wrong.

"Where is that?"

They look at each other. Back at him.

"Where are you from?"

"England. I was in Diagon Alley when…" He trails off. Looks at their blank faces. Sighs.

"Great. No such place around here?"

A negative sign.

"Wonderful."

The dark-eyed one grins.

"Looks like death isn't what it used to be."

Well. After wands and owls and flying broomsticks, he supposes even dying and waking up somewhere completely unknown where people are still travelling on horseback armed with guns (_alternate universe, maybe,_ _or something like that – he'll have to ask Hermione for precisions, he thinks, before realizing the foolishness of that thought_) doesn't seem very strange.

He can't stop himself from smiling back, despite being dead, despite not being sure he'll ever see his friends again.

"And since it looks like I'm stuck with _you, _mind telling me your names?"

"I'm Cuthbert Allgood."

"Alain Johns." It's the fair one, giving a smile of his own.

Then, Blue-eyes. "Roland Deschain."


	2. II: Nights

**A/N: **_sorry for the long wait, everyone who wanted this chapter. Major changes have been made in chapter one, with, for example, the introduction of Cuthbert and Alain. I'd suggest reading it again. As for the disclaimer: nothing's changed, I still don't own._

**Bulletproof**

**Chapter II. Nights**

On the morning, they leave the clearing together, Harry mounted on what used to be the pack horse. It's not that much of that inconvenient once the material it had born has been subjected to shrinking and feather-light charms. He is at first uneasy and uncomfortable, but his previous stints with hippogriffs and thestrals have at least, if only a little, given an idea of how to _stay_ on the horse's back. It, at least, is not flying.

They do not talk much while riding, Roland, Cuthbert and Alain apparently thinking about something important, Harry too busy taking in the immense open spaces they pass through – yellow-green fields and pastures, hills and valleys, and the dispersed towns and cities. It is a strange and awesome sight after a whole life spent between Surrey, London and Hogwarts, and he discovers he really likes this, this wandering on the dusty roads with only friends for company (and though he wishes his old friends were there with him, he refuses to believe he'll never see them again – there is way to go back, there _must_ be a way to go back).

Those places, though, are getting rarer and rarer as they go, replaced by empty, burnt fields and dry desert-like plains. The animals are almost all somehow mutated, with extra limbs and organs, or oozing wounds. The people are weary-eyed, but still strong, working diligently. Sometimes they meet some other gunslingers, and they stop to talk, or palaver, as they say. Directions are blurry, ever-changing, and what is east one morning can be south-east the next one.

It is only when they stop for the nights, beside the trail, with a fire lit and their dinner cooking, that they speak. Harry does it first, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames and the other three sitting nearby, tells them a story about a boy who lived with his uncle and aunt and cousin and did not know he was a wizard before his eleventh birthday and who went to school and learned he was famous.

He tells them about Hogwarts and the Houses and the Forbidden Forest and Hogsmeade and Quidditch and the nighttime adventures with his friends.

He tells them about Voldemort who was called 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' or 'You-Know-Who' and whose name was really Tom Marvolo Riddle and who had tried to kill him when he had been but a babe and who was the involuntary cause of his fame in the wizarding world, who was bound to him by a prophecy (_neither can live while the other survives, he recites, and wonders suddenly if his dying means Voldemort is also dead_).

He tells them about Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, wise old man and crazy old codger at the same time, too fond of sweets and, above all, lemon drops, who was sometimes like a grandfather, except not really, because grandfathers don't really send the kids to save the world, even if one of the kids is called Harry Potter, and who had a phoenix and had told him about the twin wands and about the prophecy (_late, always too late for it to make a difference_).

He tells them about Ron and Hermione, about how they had become friends, how they had always been together at school when their only concerns were having good grades and winning a Quidditch and getting Draco Malfoy in trouble, then had together gone to fight a war they had never wanted, never asked for. About Ginny whom he loved, still loves, whom he left before departing, fearing for her safety. About Neville who is shy and has such a low self-esteem, even though all of them have seen what he can do when he put his mind to it. He tells about all of his friends of the DA, about how proud of them he is, even if he doesn't always tell them.

Tells them about Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks who are in love, about paranoid old Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody who had been supposed to be their teacher _('Cort' Cuthbert says, and Roland and Alain snort in amusement_), about Kingsley Shacklebolt who has died a few weeks ago during a Death Eater attack in Diagon Alley while protecting the civilians, about Molly Weasley who is almost a mother to him, about Sirius who was his godfather and could turn into a black dog and died under his eyes while rescuing him.

Tells them about the Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix and about Severus Snape who is a part of both, Severus Snape who killed Albus Dumbledore under Harry's eyes, who turned out to have been doing it on the Headmaster's own orders and who was their only spy and who hated everything Gryffindor and Potter.

Tells about that last battle when he and his friends and a part of the Order have been ambushed while searching for another Horcrux ("_parts of a soul" he explains_) and how he has been killed, how the twin jets of death-green were coming towards him, how one hit him before the other, how the green lights merged in one.

They listen well, in silence, with the occasional question when they need clarification _(they don't know about chess, which he mentions in passing while talking about Ron, but once Harry explains Roland likens it to a game they call Castles, and they go back to the story_). The narration is a bit erratic, Harry sometimes backtracking to add details, or too flustered by something and hesitating before continuing, but he tells almost everything, and it does slightly lighten him. Helps get things cleared in his head.

It takes maybe three nights for him to say it all. Then Cuthbert looks at Alain, then at Roland, and, as they both nod, he talks.

Once, he says, there were boys in Gilead, gunslingers' sons, raised and trained to be gunslingers themselves. Only few, Bert explains, have the right to wear the guns, and that right has to be earned. Oft together they were, these boys, friends from the beginning, before they even could walk. They had two teachers, and from them they learned fighting and diplomacy and everything they would need to know when (_if_) they'd take their fathers' place.

Once, there was Hax the cook, who would nourish them in secret when they came to the kitchens, and whom they'd seen hang after it had been discovered he'd treated with one who was called the good man by some and Farson by others, and was planning to betray and poison them. They'd scattered crumbs of bread at the bottom of the gallows, under the dead man's feet, then had gone back, and that had been the end of it.

Once, there was a boy with a hawk, (_and the quick glance in Roland's direction made it clear who exactly that boy was_) who went and defeated Cort at the age of fourteen, the youngest ever to have made it, and had sacrificed David the hawk for it. He'd gone and taken his heavy 'prentice's guns that day, leaving his amazed companions and bloodied teacher, and with his closest friend buried his hawk.

Once, only slightly older but all three hiding guns in their packs, they had gone away from Gilead on a mission to a place called Mejis, more to protect them than anything else. There one had fallen in love, and another had been somewhat jealous, and all had faced and battled Eldred Jonas and his Big Coffin Hunters, and had seen and found the pink crystal glassball and Rhea the witch. There they'd annihilated a whole troop of John Farson's men, and when they came back it was too late and the girl (_Susan, her name was, and as Cuthbert talks he shares a meaningful glance with Roland, and it's a mix of resentment and friendship and anger and love_) was dead, burned alive. They'd gone back to Gilead, oh sure, but it wasn't really the same after that. And, he says, there's the Tower, but a look from the others make him skip the subject and go back to Gilead. And then, and then, the war had begun and Gilead had fallen, gone up in flames, and now…

Now, he says, they are preparing a battle, reuniting the gunslingers. They are going to make their last stand, and come what may.

….:::---:::.…

They talk of less important things after that, but they are closer, Harry being more interested and asking to know of their plans, the three doing so and teaching him more about warfare than he ever knew.

And one evening, as they are unpacking, Roland walks to Harry and, taking out one of his guns, slowly presents it to him. Alain and Bert exchange an amazed stare. Ignoring them, Harry searchingly raises his eyes to Roland's, and after a moment, reverently takes the weapon, the sandalwood grip smooth under his hand. It is heavier than he expected, but there's no need of using both hands to hold it. He looks at Roland again, a silent question in his eyes. Not answering, Roland picks up a medium-sided rock, and, without warning, throws it high in the air. Automatically, green eyes snap up, following the object's course, and, with Seeker-honed instincts, Harry pulls the trigger.

A fraction of second after the gunshot, the rock explodes in a shower of pebbles.

He looks at the gun, marvels at the way it feels so _right _in his hand, then gives it back to Roland. There's silence for a while, broken only by Bert's laugh.

"Well. Looks like we've found a new gunslinger."

….:::---:::.…

From then on, the three alternatively hand him a gun, and teach him. Teach him the old gunslinger's catechism –

"_I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father._

_I aim with my eye._

_I do not shoot with my hand; he who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father._

_I shoot with my mind._

_I do not kill with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father._

_I kill with my heart."_

- and as he says it he shoots the day's targets, and he learns fast, and always it's at least clipped. And whenever he's holding one of those ancient revolvers he can feel his blood thrumming in his veins, something akin to joy (but oh so much wilder) and an almost overwhelming bloodlust pulsing through him. A gunslinger born, they comment, and it's possibly one of the best things he's ever heard.

And so Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Die shot, his hand steady, breathing in the sharp smell of gunpowder, under the watchful eyes of the gunslingers.

And they taught him how to kill.


	3. III: Fall

**Bulletproof**

**Chapter III: Fall**

Gilead is drawing near, but this is not where they are heading. They are going past the old glorious and now fallen walls, going west, to where John Farson, the Good Man, and his troops, are waiting, for that last, long awaited battle.

It is only the four of them at first, alone on the dusty roads, but every day one rider at least joins them, more often than not wearing a gun at his belt. The first thing those newcomers look at is the ancient battle-horn hanging at Roland's side, and from there their eyes slide down to the old sandalwood grips and the smooth metal of the six-shots. Harry would have been surprised by the reverence the sight of these inspired to the gunslingers, some of them harsh and rough-looking men, had he not himself felt some kind of awe at them. And they had history, he has learnt from Bert – it was said the guns were Arthur Eld's own sword, melted and reforged, and that was the horn of the Eld. Symbols, and if there is something Harry has learned in his life, it is the power of such.

By the end of the third week, they are a small army.

When the second month starts, they stop, only a couple of wheels from the place they call Jericho, the chosen place for the upcoming battle.

After a moment of deliberation, they decide to spread around, so as not to be too noticeable – the battle will happen when they are ready, not before, even though they know Farson has probably heard of their arrival.

On that evening, Jamie, a brown haired young man that had apparently apprenticed with Roland, Bert and Alain, meets with them, and, after a short surprised glance at Harry, starts discussing strategy with Roland. After a few moments, he leaves, and Alain, sharing a look of understanding with his two friends, goes with him. They will go check the status of the now scattered gunslingers, while Roland, Cuthbert and Harry will go on their way, set camp and plan the charge. They will see each other the next morning, for the final preparations.

….:--:.…

It is night. They have stopped by the side of an old unused road, and by the fluttering light of the fire the guns are cleaned with meticulous attention. Harry tends to the horses, then strays a bit away, sensing that the two others need some time for themselves – it is their fight soon, the one they have waited for so long, and, as much as Harry is their friend, as close as he is to their _ka-tet, _he is still an outsider to this world and this war. His reasons are not completely altruistic; this anticipation for battle, this look in the others' eyes remind him of what he has lost (_no, not lost, just misplaced for a while, he'll find a way back_), remind him of preparations before a raid, of midnight excursions and duels by moonlight and, above all else, of friends. Of _home._

After weeks and weeks of almost dazed and thoughtless riding, on the eve of battle, the fact that he really is so far from everything he knew finally, completely sinks in. Literally worlds apart, and he unconsciously clenches his hands. His eyes prickle.

_Don't cry. It's not the right moment. Don't cry._

He is losing this battle against himself.

His eyes close. He breathes. Shifts. Transforms.

The change soothes him, makes those feelings simpler, easier to deal with. He remembers, with a pang, Sirius saying how he'd used this to survive in Azkaban.

There is a path leading further into the woods. He does not think, trots in, and breaks into a full gallop, the air cold in his face, the wind playing in his mane and the ground hard under his hooves. It feels like flying.

….:--:.…

Harry is gone, giving them space, and for that Bert is grateful. Somehow, he cannot stop smiling, and his fingers keep erring towards both his gun and his sling. Roland seems to be deep in thought, staring into the fire as though the Tower was hidden in it.

Cuthbert leans back, and watches the sky for a moment. "Hey, Roland?"

It takes a short moment for the query to register. Blue eyes snap up, flicker, finally focus on the speaker. "Yes?"

"The boy's part of the _tet_, isn't he?"

Boy. He doesn't really know why they call Harry that – there is only a slight age difference. Maybe because as much as he's already survived, he still doesn't know real war, something they, on the other hand, have known for a long, long time.

"…He is. But not completely."

"True. Wonder why."

Roland has no answer, and so says nothing.

"Say, when the battle's done… We'll go to the Tower, won't we?"

The blue eyes are grave, and a little bit sad, but there is also that fire that lights at that word.

Tower.

"Aye. We'll go to the Dark Tower."

_If there is a when, _the words hang unsaid in the air between them.

"Bert?" Roland has that thoughtful look, the one he has when he has something important to say.

"Yes?"

He watches as Roland gets to his feet and reaches to the great horn at his side, the gesture eerily similar to the one he had made weeks ago when reaching down for his gun, and as he extends his hand towards Bert, horn held lightly between his fingers, his eyes are softer than usual.

And Roland opens his mouth, hesitates, and before he can say what he means to he is interrupted by a thunder of hooves against the ground, coming straight for them.

….:--:.…

Harry almost does not hear the gunshots, taken as he is by this new sensation of going so fast without anything but his own muscles, but he does, and stops dead in his tracks, because something inside is telling him that this all _wrong,_ and this, even though he does not even know what it is yet, should never have happened. He turns back, and runs.

When he arrives back to camp, having transformed back without realizing it, he almost wishes he hadn't.

….:--:.…

The sounds are not coming from Harry, and no one is expected, so both of them have their guns out within seconds, and when the clatter of a horse spurred to full speed gets more distinct, the rider, barely visible in the dark, yelling something indistinct and holding a gun, they do not have to think – their hands, gunslingers' hands, act almost of their own volition, and when the sharp detonations fade, both rider and mount are down, the former still moving, but only barely. They approach, guns ready.

The man is on his back, chest heaving slowly, his breathing loud and erratic, and as they get closer, they can see dark bloody stars bloom over the clear shirt.

Then they are too close, because they can see his face, and it is Alain, fair Alain with blood trickling at his mouth and a look in his eyes that is infinitely too forgiving for what they just did.

There is a muted gasp from behind, and Roland registers, as if from far away, that Harry has come up to them, but he is still reeling, there is a taste of ashes on his tongue, and his guns are heavy in his hand.

_Not again,_ he thinks, and the image of his mother flashes in front of his eyes, before reality settles back and his friend lies at his feet, dying by his hand.

"Farson… coming tomorrow… I already warned the others," Alain is whispering, voice raspy, and both Bert and Roland kneel by his side, and Cuthbert's smile is gone.

"Thank you", Roland says, the words coming slow. "And sorry."

Cuthbert says nothing, just takes his friend's hand. Alain smiles, the corner of his lips red and his eyes sad, and, weakly raising his other hand, beckons to the boy behind them, who until now has not moved, frozen and unbelieving.

So Harry comes, and he hears, in-between hoarse intakes of breath, whispers in the still air –

"Take my guns, Harry Potter, son of James." The words are spoken in that which they call the High Speech, formal and solemn despite Alain's current state. His clouded eyes flick over to Roland, then are back.

"I can't… go to the Tower with him," Alain tells Harry, "but you… maybe you can do it in my stead."

Harry holds the tears that have sprung again, and nods, not trusting himself to speak without breaking down completely, steps back.

Then, to the other two, Alain says, "This is not your fault." And, to Cuthbert humorless laugh and Roland's disbelieving look, he only replies "_Ka_."

His breath hitches then. He coughs, blood rising to his mouth again, and he closes his hand on Bert's, grip tight for a minute or so before slackening.

The last three feel their _tet_ break as Alain's chest rises for the last time.

….:--:.…

There is no time to dig a grave, but they will not leave their friend's body to the scavengers, so they burn it. The flames, born from a flick of Harry's wand, consume, rising high above the pyre, and the three of them stand solemn before it for the time it takes to reduce it all to ashes. Only then do they step back, and, the moon low over the horizon, prepare for the morning.

Cuthbert holds Harry back, slowly and ceremoniously hands him Alain's gunbelt, and the two guns themselves, the metal shining dully under the stars.

"These are yours, now." Their eyes lock, and Bert smiles, sadly. "They are usually passed down from father to son, but there was no time for that. Wear them with pride, Harry." _You really are a gunslinger now_ goes unsaid. _You are his heir_ is also implicit. Harry swallows, and nods.

Then the older man moves as if to leave, but stops at the last moment, gazing into the distance with much more gravity than usual.

"There's no chance I'll survive this battle," he says, and Harry wants to protest, say that of course he will, but he knows battle, knows the odds, and can only remain silent, his heart heavy. "But… Protect him. He has to live through today." There's no need to ask who _he_ is. "The Tower calls for him."

"I will," Harry answers.

"Thank you."

….:--:.…

Hours later, just before dawn, Roland intercepts Cuthbert, and presents him his battle-horn.

Abrupt and to the point, as he usually is, though gentler in tone, he asks "Will you hold it for me, and wind it into battle?"

For once, Bert is lost for words.

Patient, Roland waits, until finally the other man nods, and grins.

"I will, my friend."

….:--:.…

Then, as they prepare to leave, Harry stops Roland a short distance from his mount.

"You won't be riding him today."

Blue eyes meet green ones, a silent question in them.

Harry answers by transforming, and the two gunslingers watch him with slight fascination. The black steed now standing where the boy was, graceful and calm, marches until he is at Roland's side, and his intentions are clear.

There is a momentary hesitation, a pause during which Roland and Harry stare each other down, but finally Roland relents, and somehow hoists himself up on the Animagus.

There is a ripple in what remains of their broken _tet,_ the boy's voice echoing faintly in their minds.

_Don't you dare die on me._

* * *

_Me? Snail. More precisely: me asthmatic, blind, old snail …Uhm. Don't kill me? Alain didn't want to die. Roland didn't want to talk.  
__Jericho is next, and I'm pretty sure I'll mess it up._


End file.
